Francesca

LITTLE SCRATCH. I PUSH THE needle into the vein. Close my eyes. Here it comes, the high. My head falls back against the cushions.

Yes.

I'm experienced enough to self-administer the IV drip now and, besides, I don't quite trust anyone else to do it right.

I thrill at the thought of the cocktail of vitamins surging into my bloodstream. I need to be on top form this weekend and especially for tomorrow's celebratory feast.

It's the most perfect morning. The promised heatwave will soon be upon us. A couple of days ago we put in a rather urgent order for some handheld white-feather fans, to keep our guests stylishly cool tomorrow evening. The coronets have been delivered to the rooms. The wicker sculptures, made by a visionary artist in Hackney, will be delivered later. I looked at a few local artists, honestly I did, but there was just no comparison. This guy did an installation for The Vampire's Wife recently. He. Is. Amazing. And the people staying here expect London quality, if you know what I mean, albeit presented in a rural setting. The same sort of elevated spiritual aesthetic as our crystal neck pouches. It's going to be stunning—and just amazing for socials. The gift that keeps on giving.

I ease out the needle. The IV bag's nearly empty. I can already feel its contents nourishing me, making me new.

But this—I switch on my laptop—may be the thing that nourishes me most. I click on a little icon of a lens. If you didn't know what it was it might look like the black shiny orb of a crystal ball. Which in a way I suppose it is! I rather like that: it gives a magical, mystical air to the whole thing. I know technology is the root of all evil and blue light is the work of the devil... but this is different.

I key in the first password, then the second. It's a mercifully secure system. Now they materialize before me: hundreds of tiny thumbnails, each relating to a different feed. The cameras set up throughout the hotel are teeny tiny—barely visible to the human eye. You'd never spot them anyway because they're so well concealed. It was all done by a man who used to work for... well, let's just say people who really know about this sort of thing.

No one else at The Manor knows this exists, not even Owen. I had everything installed while he was away on another project and before the interior designers moved in. The other thing about the guy who installed it: he isn't the sort to talk.

I start clicking through the icons: a few feeds each for all the public spaces—to capture all the angles—and a single feed for each room.

I know it may not be totally, strictly legal, having cameras fitted in people's rooms. But it comes from a very good place, honestly. It was one of Grandfa's rules (taken from his experience in government, no doubt): prepare for the worst and it will never happen! I want to keep The Manor the safe, happy environment it is. I want our guests to feel we trust them. There's nothing worse than a place of this caliber patronizing its clientele with theft-proof clothes hangers and dire warnings about not filching the shower gel. Hence the full-size bath oils in glass containers, the matches left on the dressing tables. At the same time, one really has to have a contingency plan. And ultimately, this place is so much more than a hotel. It's a home. One has a right to protect one's home, doesn't one?

I watch my guests going about their business. A whole world of human activity! Many are at their toilette, a few are making love (one pair in the most astonishing position; I didn't know anyone's legs could bend at that angle!). In one room a couple are clearly in the throes of an argument. I frown: we don't really want those sort of vibes here! Oh goodness—there's my brother Hugo, with that awful woman he's brought here. I'm sure she's some sort of escort. I do hope he doesn't show me up this weekend. Oscar's a little better house-trained. The two of them are in on this project with me too, strictly on the money side. I thought it would only be prudent to make this a family affair and give them a chance to do well out of this place, seeing as Granmama overlooked them in leaving it to me. Besides they're well connected in that regard—they've got a couple of investor friends staying this weekend. Anyway. I click quickly on, not wanting to see anything unsavory.

There's just one room that's single occupancy, a woman. I watch as she enters her Woodland Hutch, carrying one of our beautiful dark green tote bags over her shoulder, taking from it a towel and some sort of book. Funny. Almost everyone else staying is part of a pair—we even have a throuple. I wonder what she's doing here on her own. I mean, all power to her of course! But it's the opening weekend... celebratory and social. Something about her doesn't quite fit. I look up the name in the bookings. Bella Springfield. Pretty, if a little common. If she is a media person as her bio suggests I haven't heard of her. Odd.

Anyway. Here they all are at last. My guests. Here, in this magical kingdom I have created for them. If I were driven by ego I'd say it gives me a feeling of great power. But I'm not. I've worked on myself over the years. So let's say it's a kind of maternal love I feel for them all. It's what I keep saying: we're one big happy family here!

I check the outdoor feeds next. There's the pool, the walled garden, there's... I pause. Click back to the frame of the courtyard. What on earth is Owen doing talking to Michelle? He detests the woman! And why is he shirtless? I zoom in. There's something oddly intense about their body language.

I close my eyes. In two three four, out two three four five six seven eight. Ah. And there we go. All better now. It's a good thing if Owen and Michelle are getting along better. It's important to me that everyone is in harmony. Like I say, we need to be one happy family.

I open my eyes at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, glance back at the screen to see that Owen has disappeared from view. I just manage to slam the laptop closed before he pushes open the door.

"Hello beloved," I say. "How was it out on the water?"

"Fine," he says.

He doesn't look like a man who's come back refreshed from his early morning exercise, though. He looks jittery. And he brings with him a stink of smoke. He thinks I don't know about his secret stash, but there are very few things I don't know about here. What he doesn't know is that I swapped the disgusting cheap stuff he had in the bag for a low-tar, organic variety. That has to be better than the alternative, right?

As Owen takes a shower I begin to painstakingly apply some very light make-up. People need to believe I use nothing but sunlight, eight hours' sleep, and antioxidants to look like this. It's part of the package. I try to be completely authentic in all things, you know? But sometimes you've got to give people what they want. They don't want to know about tear trough treatments, lasers, and the occasional teeny pinprick of Botox, do they? I'm not naturally beautiful, you see. There: I can say it now without rancor. I think most people would be shocked to notice, on second glance, that I am right. My eyes are a fraction too close together, my jaw too heavy. It used to upset me. But I've learned that with tweakments (oh so subtle) and the right make-up you can fake it. Of course what shines from within is most important, but dermal fillers have their role, too.

Owen comes out of the shower, drying his damp hair with a towel. I watch the muscles in his back move beneath the skin, giving the huge eagle tattoo inked across his shoulder blades the appearance of life, of readying to take flight.

My beloved doesn't walk to the dressing room to take out his clothes—he prowls. The linen shirt he selects (he is very particular about his clothes; his taste impeccable) tames him a little. Or it covers up the tattoo, at least—but there's still the impression of an animal beneath the fabric, a wolf in sheep's clothing. I watch as he slams the dressing room door. He looks like a man with something on his mind.

"I hope you don't mind me saying, my darling, but you don't look well. Anything bothering you?"

Owen shrugs. A tiny hesitation. "No. Just tired from my surf, I suppose."

"Well, it's going to be a busy couple of days. I'm so glad you had that time to yourself."

"Not quite to myself. We should warn guests off going down to the hidden beach."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"A woman climbed down this morning."

"You sure it wasn't a local?"

"Definitely a guest. She was carrying one of our tote bags."

As a highly visual person I can't help picturing the scene. The two of them on that secluded beach. I find myself wondering whether he found her attractive. An image shimmers in front of my eyes: two figures on the sandy cove, moving together, embracing... and with it a feeling of loss that mushrooms quickly into something darker, angrier—

I blink and it disappears from view, like seawater sinking into the sand.

Goodness. What is happening to me? I take another deep breath. No. I've evolved beyond petty feelings of jealousy these days. It's so liberating. We are all creatures of Gaia and attraction to other beautiful creatures is in our organic make-up. Besides, this is Owen we're talking about. Owen. He worships me. He is, for want of a better word, completely obsessed with me. Not in an unhealthy way, you understand. Just in the sense of his soul being inextricably cleaved to mine.

My tone is oh so very light and breezy as I lean toward my reflection and say: "I wonder how she found her way down there. After all, I summered here every year and I didn't find it until I was a teen." I fit the eyelash curler's bracket gently over my eyelid.

"Well, she said she'd been here before, so she knew the way."

"Ow, shit!" I wince with pain: I seem to have caught the skin of my eyelid in the little metal clamp. As I blink away the tears I catch Owen's look of surprise. Francesca Meadows never swears. "Oops." I smile, to reassure him.

I think of the woman I just watched entering her Hutch with her green tote bag. The solo booking. It was her on the beach, I'm suddenly sure of it. Now I think about it, the name niggles at me—though I can't think why.

As Owen shrugs on his jeans I make a little mental note to look into this Bella Springfield. Just to satisfy my curiosity. Nothing more than that.